


Turn Away

by johnwatso



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-16 00:53:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3468305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnwatso/pseuds/johnwatso
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the fourth anniversary of Sherlock's "death", John wakes up in bed with him, but the pain still lingers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turn Away

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TwisterMelody](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwisterMelody/gifts).



> "Turn  
> Turn away  
> From the sound of your own voice  
> Calling no one"

It isn’t like before. Not like those first few years after. On the first anniversary, John spent it with his nose in a bottle of whiskey, thinking of all the ways he hated Sherlock for leaving him. How, even if he came back - a thought that he indulged in his darkest, most intimately lonely moments - he would hate him still.

On the second anniversary, he resolutely ignored it, choosing to spend his time with Mary instead, trying to throw himself into their relationship, into her warmth and solid presence. It didn’t work, but he went to bed that night telling himself that it did. Convincing himself that he still had a life without Sherlock Holmes.

The third anniversary was spent much the same way as the second, even though, by then, Sherlock was back and all should have been right but, of course, _should_ and reality are always two very different things. 

And now, on the fourth anniversary of the day that his best friend and, quite frankly, reason for living, jumped off the roof of a building and made him watch, John wakes up feeling just as one would expect: miserable and cold.

Which he shouldn’t be, especially not with his arms full of Sherlock, his left leg tucked between Sherlock’s, his heart utterly screaming with Sherlock. He is a sensible man. He knows he shouldn’t feel like this, shouldn’t feel an emptiness even as he can feel his lover’s heart beating through his thin t shirt. But he does. The kind of pain he went through doesn’t just dissipate when the problem is fixed. _Should_ vs reality at play again.

He feels more than sees Sherlock slowly waking.

“Morning,” he says, and kisses the side of his neck.

“Mmm,” Sherlock grumbles, pushing his body back into John’s.

_Feel how real he is. Turn away from the weight that could take you from him again._

He wonders, briefly, if Sherlock realises the date and its significance, but it’s not as though he’d think anything of it, beyond the game and how clever he was to have evaded Moriarty’s scheme. 

_That’s not true. He isn’t that man. He never has been. You were looking at him the wrong way, piecing him together as though he’s all corners and edges, when he’s so much more. How many times does he have to show you that?_  

And that’s what it comes down to, isn’t it? John’s previous perception of the truth and the truth itself. Sherlock is not the sociopath who threw it all away without a thought. Sherlock is the man who loves him, has told him so countless times as they lay in this very bed. He isn’t the ruthless machine who jumped off a building or got on a plane regardless of John. He’s the brave, selfless friend and lover who did it all for him, for them. 

Sherlock twists around in John’s arms, so that they’re facing each other. His hair is rumpled from sleep and his eyes are soft and John loves him so much. Which is why it still hurts.

He’s silent for a moment and then: “I know,” he says simply.

“I wish it didn’t feel like this. I know, rationally, that you’re here. That you’re alive, but. It isn’t easy.”

“I know,” Sherlock repeats, and he presses a soft kiss to John’s nose and closes his arms around John’s body, squeezing tight. It helps.

“When you were gone, I wondered if I’d ever be whole again. I thought, for sure, that it couldn’t happen. I knew I loved you, but having to live without you proved just how much.”

Sherlock says nothing, just pulls John impossibly closer to him.

“I love you,” John has to say, for all the times he didn’t have the nerve to, and then for all the times he couldn’t. He smothers Sherlock’s cheek and brow in sloppy kisses until Sherlock leans back and lets him kiss his mouth desperately, their tongues meeting and a small respite scouring through John.

Sherlock must be feeling the same, except quite a bit more insistently against John’s hip, and John’s answering erection just grows stronger. They only break apart when John pulls Sherlock’s shirt over his head. Then, he kisses him again while he takes Sherlock’s pants off with one hand, and then his own. Their bodies press against each other and John involuntarily groans when he feels Sherlock’s hard length against his.

“John… I’m so sorry, John, I’m-”

And that’s all he manages to get out before John captures his mouth and strokes the head of his penis, circling the top with his thumb. Without breaking the embrace, Sherlock leans over and retrieves the lube from next to the bed and hands it to John in an unspoken request.

_Yes. Always yes._

John coats his fingers with the gel and presses a finger against Sherlock’s entrance, pushing in slightly. Within minutes, he has two fingers in comfortably, and he pulls out to coat his cock. This isn’t about lazy morning sex, this is about the urgency of replacing a pain with a comfort.

By now, Sherlock is on his back, his hair even wilder than before, and his eyes almost all pupils. John loves him like this. He plants a hard kiss on each of his cheekbones and places himself in position, desperate to push into Sherlock’s warmth as quickly as possible, but mindful of the sensitive muscle there. Sherlock, ever the mind-reader, senses John’s conflicting hesitance and want, and pushes down, taking all of John in immediately.

John hisses, the tightness and the fact that he is as conceivably close to Sherlock as he can be never quite losing its novelty. It’s impossible not to feel the surge of electricity and adoration when Sherlock’s legs are wound around his hips and he’s moving in time with John’s hard thrusts.

Before long, John slows down, his frustration having paled by being allowed close as he is to Sherlock, inside of him and utterly surrounded by him. John looks down at him, his eyes moistening ever so slightly, feeling the same as it did that first time, when he was deducing the pink lady and John realised what a fucking marvel he is.

He lifts one hand to cradle Sherlock’s cheek and whispers, “I love you so much. I’m so glad… So glad you’re here.”

“I’m here, John,” Sherlock says and he pulls him down to kiss him slowly. “I love you and I’m here.”

After a few more thrusts, John comes and it’s almost as though he never lost this miracle of a man four years ago today. He strokes Sherlock a few times, until he gasps out “John” and stiffens, spurting between their bodies. 

Exhausted, John lies down where he is, letting Sherlock straighten them out and cuddle him against his chest.

“I’m here,” he repeats softly and kisses the top of John’s head. 


End file.
